Disclaimer: Harry Potter is owned by JK Rowling at all times between 1990 and whenever Congress sees fit to allow the copyright to expire. If you time travel to before 1990, please consult the local temporal copyright laws.

Parts of this chapter are quoted from Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone.

Introduction

Over the years, there have been a number of stories that I started writing seriously, only to abandon them after the first chapter or two, for any number of reasons. In fact, half of my initial list of stories when I first starting writing fanfiction went this way. I've learnt over time that only about a third of my ideas actually make it to posting—often for good reason, but sometimes just because I decide it isn't the story I want to write, or I'm the wrong person to write it. Because of this, I've accumulated about a dozen completed chapters of various stories that are collecting dust on my hard drive, and some of them are probably worth continuing if someone else wants to take a crack at them. So I decided, like so many fanfic authors, to clean them up and post them all in an anthology. Regular updates of my major stories will continue, of course.

I know that The Mountains of the Moon and The Philosopher's Red Herring also fall into this category, and The Stag and the Swan sort of does as well, but since I've already posted those separately, I'm going to leave them where they are.

So here's how it's going to work. For each of these incomplete stories, I will post what chapters I have (the longest is four) in chronological order. (So the later chapters may be better.) Additionally, I will describe where I had planned for the story to go and why I decided to drop it. If anyone decides they want to write their own version, go ahead. I have no objection, although I would appreciate a PM so I can read it. For some of these stories, I have more detailed notes that I can send via PM as well.

The first story in this anthology, to be brutally honest, was so poorly-conceived that I never even gave it a proper title. It would have been a boilerplate time travel story with Harry jumping back to his eleven-year-old body. He would have had a sensible, easy time of it instead of dragging things out for four years to the graveyard scene, but otherwise not much new, and I dropped it for that very reason: it was almost completely unoriginal. And moreover, I later realised that A Little Child Shall Lead Them was a much better idea, so I took that one and ran with it.

The one original part of this story would have been the basilisk's character arc. Instead of the basilisk being automatically hostile and killed right away, or being automatically friendly to any Parselmouth, she would have been a real character who believed in Salazar Slytherin's views in this story. Harry would have had to build trust with her over time and persuade her of his more tolerant views of muggle-borns. I liked the idea, but it ultimately wasn't enough to carry the story, so I let it go.

The Obligatory Time Travel Fic: Chapter 1

Harry Potter awoke confused and disoriented. He was in a cramped, dark space, lying on a cot under a threadbare blanket. He felt funny—weak and off-balance when he tried to sit up. He fumbled around in dust and cobwebs, feeling oddly familiar shapes around him. He couldn't find his wand. His hand brushed a hanging chain, and he pulled it, illuminating a single, bare light bulb overhead.

Of course, he was in his cupboard at Number 4 Privett Drive. But how had he got there? This house was destroyed three years ago. The last thing he remembered was…he couldn't quite remember the last thing he remembered. He tried to focus harder. There had been that last fight on the surface, evacuating the survivors, hiding underground with the Unspeakables, and then…the ritual! A flood of memories came back to him: four long, hard years fighting an unwinnable war—a war that had claimed almost everyone he held dear, the desperate search for a solution, an insane plan that no one would ever have dared attempt even a year earlier, concocted by the best and brightest of a dozen different nations. He could remember the ritual now: the ritual intended to send his memories back ten years into the past, in the hopes that he could prevent the horror that the future had become.

That was it. He looked down and saw the body of a skinny, not-quite-eleven-year-old boy, dressed in too-large clothes cast off by his cousin. It looked like the ritual was a success. He immediately thought over the Plan to vanquish Tommy Boy—that was the official nickname after the Taboo disaster. It was complicated, but he could easily do it without the Death Eaters breathing down his neck, though he figured he should probably write it down in order to keep it straight.

And then, with a start, he remembered the other ritual—the one he had memorised and that had to be performed at the correct time—the one that he had to write down as soon as possible so that he didn't forget a single piece. If the stillness in the house was any indication, he had a little while before his alleged relatives woke up. He couldn't remember whether they had locked the cupboard last night, not that it would have stopped him, but as luck would have it, they hadn't. He slipped out quietly and quickly nicked a notepad and pen from the kitchen. He took them back to his cupboard and started writing furiously. It took him almost an hour to write down all the runes and incantations along with an outline of the Plan, but when he looked it over, he was sure he'd got it right. Then, he lay back and waited for the next step to fall into place.

Harry heard his relatives as soon as they stirred. He hadn't been sure how he would feel about seeing them alive again, but he was surprised to find he didn't feel much of anything. He guessed he was happy that they weren't dead, but beyond that, they might as well have been complete strangers to him.

Not that he wasn't going to get revenge.

There was a horrible smell in the kitchen when Harry went in for breakfast. It seemed to be coming from a large metal tub in the sink. He went to have a look. The tub was full of what looked like dirty rags swimming in grey water.

"What's this?" he asked Aunt Petunia. Her lips tightened as they always did if he dared to ask a question.

"Your new school uniform," she said.

Harry looked in the bowl again.

"Oh," he said, "I didn't realise it had to be so wet."

"Don't be stupid," snapped Aunt Petunia. "I'm dyeing some of Dudley's old things grey for you. It'll look just like everyone else's when I've finished."

Dudley and Uncle Vernon came in, both with wrinkled noses because of the smell from Harry's new uniform. Uncle Vernon opened his newspaper as usual and Dudley banged his Smelting stick, which he carried everywhere, on the table.

They heard the click of the mail slot and flop of letters on the doormat.

"Get the mail, Dudley," said Uncle Vernon from behind his paper.

"Make Harry get it."

"Get the mail, Harry."

"Yes, Uncle Vernon," he said. Harry went to the door. If the ritual had gone as planned, he knew he should find…yes, there it was: an envelope of yellowish parchment addressed in emerald green ink to "The Cupboard under the Stairs." He went straight back to the kitchen and handed the other letters to his uncle with a quick, "Here's the mail, Uncle Vernon." Then he turned to his aunt and said with a wicked grin stretching across his face, "and you'll recognise this, Aunt Petunia." He handed her his Hogwarts letter.

Aunt Petunia took it curiously and read the first line. For a moment it looked as though she might faint. She clutched her throat and made a choking noise.

"Vernon! Oh my goodness—Vernon!" she cried."It's them!"

Vernon took one look at the envelope and went from red to green to grayish-white in a matter of seconds.

"What is that?" Dudley demanded. "What's going on?"

"Oh, that's just my acceptance letter to magic school, Dudders."

"What!"

"There is no such thing as—" Vernon roared.

"Oh, I think we both know there is, Uncle Vernon," Harry said calmly. "And I'll be taking that back now."

"You'll do no such thing!"

Harry reached out toward them and spoke the words, "Accio letter." The envelope leaped out of Petunia's grip and back into his hand. Dudley started screaming.

"You—you can't do that!" Vernon stammered, rising to his feet, fists raised. "I will not have you going to that freak school!"

"Sit!" Harry shouted. He reached down deep to the powerful reserves of "accidental" magic that his young body possessed and flared it out into the room, making the lights flicker and rattling everything that wasn't bolted down. He instantly regretted the action as he felt his energy drain away and struggled to keep his feet. His body was too young and untrained to this properly with a wand, let alone without one, but it was enough to make the three horrified Dursleys sit back down at the table.

"You will not be telling me what I can and cannot do anymore," Harry ordered while he tried to keep from panting. "I'm a powerful wizard, like my parents—oh, yes. I know about them, too—and I am perfectly capable of making your lives more abnormal than you can imagine. You will not restrict my movements, and you will not attempt to keep any of my possessions from me. I know how much Dudley loves his second bedroom, so I will be moving into the guest bedroom for the rest of the summer. "After that, I'll be out of your hair."

His relatives were staring at him with expressions of fear and rage. "Really you should be happy," he insisted. "You only have to put up with me until the first of September now, and after that…if everything goes as planned, and I succeed in killing the evil wizard who murdered my parents—yes, I also know about that—then you'll never have to see me again. Now, I'm going over to Mrs. Figg's house so I can reply to this letter. I'll see you all later…maybe." With that, the Boy-Who-Wasn't-Going-To-Take-It-Anymore walked away, leaving the Dursleys speechless.

Arabella Figg answered the door to find Harry Potter standing on her doorstep, much to her surprise.

"Why hello, there, Harry," she said. "What are you doing here?"

"Mrs. Figg," Harry tried to say in a sweet eleven-year-old voice. "I just got a letter from a school called Hogwarts…"

"Oh you got your Hogwarts letter, that's wonderful."

"You know about it?" he said eagerly.

"Of course, Harry. I can't do magic, but most of my family can. I know all about it. You are going, aren't you."

"I don't know…Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia never told me about magic or anything…"

Mrs. Figg's face fell. "Oh, of course they wouldn't," she grumbled.

"Aunt Petunia said you might know something. Do you know what it means when they want…an owl?"

"Yes, Harry. Witches and wizards use owls to deliver letters. I do have a post owl you can use. Would you like to send a letter now?"

"Yes, please."

Mrs. Figg brought him a pen and paper—not a quill and ink, he noted—and chatted with him a little as he began to write. He thought he had managed to act suitably shocked when she told him the real story of his parents' deaths, but he was mainly focused on the letter:

Dear Ms. McGonagall,

Was that right? Yes, the letter didn't actually say "Professor" on it.

I am very surprised to learn about the existence of magic and about Hogwarts. My Aunt and Uncle never really told me anything about it until today. I probably wouldn't have believed it, except it would explain a few strange thing that have happened in the past. And Mrs. Figg says it's real.

So far, so good. The trick was to do this without using any magicky words like "muggle."

I'd love to go to a magical school, but I don't really know anything about magic besides what she told me, and I have no idea where I can buy any of the school supplies, even if I had the money. Is there some kind of—

No, no, no. He just barely stopped himself from writing "orientation." Far too grown-up.

—meeting or anything where I can learn about magic and get help with the supplies? Also, I don't think Uncle Vernon will want to drive me around, so is there any magical way to get to a meeting?

Thanks,

Harry Potter

Harry didn't have long to wait. The very next morning, another letter came through the mail slot with the Hogwarts seal on it. He hid it in his shirt, not bothering to show it to his relatives, and read it up in the guest room.

Dear Mr. Potter,

I am most disappointed to hear that you have not been told about your magical heritage. This is a serious oversight and should not have been allowed to happen, and I hope to remedy this problem as quickly as possible.

I would like to formally invite you to the Hogwarts orientation for students of non-magical heritage this Saturday, the 27th, at King's Cross Railway Station in London. This letter is a portkey. Be sure that you are holding it at precisely 9 o'clock in the morning on the 27th, and it will transport you directly to King's Cross. During the orientation, I will personally escort you to Gringott's Wizarding Bank to access your account. Your parents left you a substantial sum of money when they died, so you need have no fear of not being able to afford school supplies.

Once you have your money, if you wish to make additional trips to magical London, you will be able to take the Knight Bus. Simply hold out your right hand at the side of the street whilst thinking about the name. It will take you anywhere you want to go in Great Britain.

I hope that you will, indeed, choose to attend Hogwarts this fall. I can assure you that it will be far more pleasant than your current situation.

Sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress

Harry was surprised that she mentioned the Knight Bus. She probably guessed that he would want to get away from his relatives if he could. It was easy, after all these years, to read between the lines of her restrained letter. She was mad. He imagined the chewing out she must have given Dumbledore and smiled.

He remembered Minerva McGonagall fondly. She wasn't always supportive of him, but when push really—really—came to shove, she was as fierce a lion as any. He hadn't personally seen her die, but he had heard the story—fighting to the last and going down with her school. Now, if he had his way, she would never have to fight that fight.

With nothing to do until the orientation, Harry decided he would just relax for the next two days. It was an almost unreasonably good feeling. He hadn't been able to truly relax since…well, since Tommy Boy came back, really, and he wouldn't be getting much of it for the next year, either. He'd forgotten how good it felt.

At nine o'clock on Saturday morning, Harry held up McGonagall's letter and was whisked away to King's Cross, landing in a heap in an out-of-the-way spot near Platform Ten. He never had got used to portkey travel. Within seconds of each other, six muggle-born witches and wizards and ten parents landed in a circle around him. Several of them promptly lost their breakfasts. Harry noticed Professor McGonagall standing up at the head of the circle, but he was quickly distracted by a familiar voice.

"Augh, was that really the best way to get here?"

"Are you okay, Hermione?" a tall, dark-haired man said.

"I think so…"

Tears filled Harry's eyes unbidden as he watched Hermione Jean Granger pull herself to her feet. She looked so young and happy, present circumstances aside. He couldn't believe she'd ever been that young. It was a good thing everyone who saw him thought his tears were tears of nausea. It took everything in him not to run over and hug the bushy-haired little witch senseless, or worse, kiss her on the cheek. That wouldn't go over well with her father standing right there, even aside from the fact that she was eleven and he was almost twenty-one.

He recognised the others, too: Justin and Kevin, who had died in Azkaban; Sophie, one of the many casualties of the Snatchers; Dean, who had died in the Battle of Hogwarts; and little, waifish Sally-Anne, who had thankfully escaped Tommy Boy's reign of terror by moving to Canada after first year.

"Ahem," Professor McGonagall said. Harry hastily wiped the tears from his eyes and rose to his feet. "I apologise for the mode of transport. All forms of magical transportation take some getting used to. Mr. Potter, are you travelling alone?"

"Y-yes ma'am," he said, trying to play they nervous little boy.

"Then I will be accompanying you. Everyone follow me, please." She led them out to the platforms. "These are the other muggle-born students—those from non-magical families—who will be starting at Hogwarts this year," she explained to Harry. "I have already visited them to explain about magic, and I will be happy to answer any questions you have."

"Thank you, ma'am. Mrs. Figg told me a little…she told me about my parents."

"Ah, yes," McGonagall said sadly, too quietly for the other families to hear. "Your parents were some of my best students, and they were good friends of mine. We were all hit very hard by their deaths." She returned to business and explained to the group how to get through the barrier to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters and had them all run through for a quick look.

Harry was hit by another wave of memories when he saw the platform. It wasn't in use right now; the great scarlet steam engine was absent, but he remembered the brightly-lit platform well. The last time he had seen it was the summer after sixth year. He'd never got the chance to go back and say goodbye to his friends there one last time, never had a chance to ride the Express back after graduation. For that matter, he'd never even graduated, though he'd racked up a few certifications in the intervening years.

But alas, they couldn't stay. They had a lot of ground to cover today. Professor McGonagall led them out of the station, and Harry smiled sadly as they passed Platforms Seven and Eight, remembering the daring escape they had made. In the mad flight after the Battle of Hogwarts, what was left of the Resistance had gathered as many allies and muggle-borns as they could find and had done the last thing the Death Eaters expected: they commandeered the Magical Orient Express at Platform Seven and a Half, supercharged it with magic, and rode it to France. With every wand they could spare trained on the engine to speed it up, the Magical Orient Express went screaming out of King's Cross at over two hundred miles per hour.

In his anger, Tommy Boy had levelled the entire station. Hundreds of muggles died; the Underground was crippled, and the Statute of Secrecy was in serious jeopardy. It was the first serious spillover of the war into the muggle world. The first of many.

Harry was eternally grateful that the Leaky Cauldron was within walking distance of King's Cross, for that gave him enough time to do the one thing he really needed to do before they got there: talk to Hermione before she found out he was the Boy-Who-Lived.

It was funny, he thought, having to work up the nerve to talk to Hermione Granger, the girl who had been his most supportive friend for seven years—his fellow misfit right from the start. He slipped back a couple of places in the line until he was alongside her. Then, he extended a hand to her and said, "Hi, I'm Harry Potter. Who are you?"

Hermione looked a little surprised that he had actually approached her, but she excitedly shook his hand and said, "Pleased to meet you. I'm Hermione Granger. This is ever so exciting, isn't it. I just couldn't believe magic was real, but when Professor McGonagall turned a lamp into penguin…"

Harry struggled to keep from cracking up at her enthusiasm. He could swear her eyes twinkled like Dumbledore's when she got into one of her little spiels. Her parents had to calm her down so that they could introduce themselves to him.

"Harry, why are you travelling alone?" Mrs. Granger asked. "Couldn't your parents come?"

Harry shook his head. "No, uh, my parents died when I was a baby—they were actually magical, but my Aunt and Uncle hate magic, so they didn't want to come."

"Oh no, I'm sorry!" Hermione exclaimed, and she grabbed him in a hug.

Harry didn't know whether to laugh or cry at that. For one thing, Hermione was hugging a boy she had just met—in front of her parents, no less. She may have been best known for her brains, but Harry had always had to remind himself that not only was she Ravenclaw enough to brew Polyjuice Potion in a bathroom in her second year, but she was also Gryffindor enough to actually do it. But he had to suppress his amazement that she felt like she was the one who needed to hug him. She had no reason to think otherwise, of course. It was just that he couldn't get the image out of his head of the last time he had seen her: lying on the steps of Hogwarts in a pool of blood, her throat ripped out by the fangs of Nagini.

She pulled back, seeing the tears running down his cheeks and a distant look on his face. "Um…sorry," she said nervously.

It took a moment for his brain to reengage and remember what they were talking about. He removed his glasses and wiped his face with sleeve. "It's okay…really," he said. "I think I have some cousins in the magical world. I can probably find another place to stay pretty fast."

Her parents looked on in surprise at the casual (not to mention delusionally hopeful-sounding) way that he talked about leaving his home, but of course, he now knew now how easy it would have been if Dumbledore had ever let him. In fact, he could probably get the Grangers to take him in if he wanted, but there was no need for that in the Plan.

He asked Hermione a few questions about herself and let her prattle on as they walked. A few minutes later, they reached the Leaky Cauldron, and he braced himself for what was coming. It was only when Tom the bartender's eyes flew straight to his scar that he realised that Hermione hadn't even mentioned the mark on his forehead.

"Good Lord, is this—can this be?"

The pub went silent. The regular patrons craned their necks to see him and whispered to each other. The muggle-borns just looked confused.

"Bless my soul," whispered the old bartender, "Harry Potter… what an honour."

He hurried out from behind the bar, rushed toward Harry and seized his hand, tears in his eyes.

"Welcome back, Mr. Potter, welcome back."

Then there was a great scraping of chairs and the next moment, Harry found himself shaking hands with everyone in the Leaky Cauldron.

"Doris Crockford, Mr. Potter, can't believe I'm meeting you at last."

"So proud, Mr. Potter, I'm just so proud."

"Always wanted to shake your hand—I'm all of a flutter."

"Delighted, Mr. Potter, just can't tell you, Diggle's the name, Dedalus Diggle."

McGonagall saved him from the crush: "Excuse me, but Mr. Potter is just passing through to purchase his school supplies, and we have a tight schedule to keep. Good day."

Harry was just thankful that Professor Quirrell wasn't there today. That was going to be awkward enough at school. McGonagall led them to the back of the pub where the entrance to Diagon Alley was located. The other children gasped in wonder when the portal opened up. Harry did, too, but for a different reason. For him, the last time he had seen this place, it was a smoking ruin.

"What was all that about?" Hermione asked him as they started down the alley.

"Apparently, I'm famous because everyone thinks I defeated the Dark Lord You-Know-Who as a baby," he said with an edge of annoyance.

"What?!"

"Yeah, the thing is it was actually my mother who defeated him, but everyone thinks it was me because…well, I was the only one who survived…I'm sure there's books about it."

Harry chuckled inwardly at the gleam that appeared in Hermione's eyes when he mentioned the books, but presently, he discretely took the pages of his to-do list out of his pocket and added an item that he couldn't believe he had forgotten: Properly memorialise James and Lily Potter.

McGongall led the group to Gringotts, where the muggle-borns exchanged pounds for galleons, but Harry was taken down to his vault. It was then that he began to put his Plan into action. He innocently asked for a money bag at the teller's desk and charged a fairly nice model with an Extension Charm to his account. Then, once they were through the security, he cast a mild wandless Confundus Charm on McGonagall so that she wouldn't notice just how much gold he was swiping from his vault. He didn't want to risk asking her for his key. When he was sure he had enough for everything he wanted to buy, he walked back to the cart as if nothing were out of the ordinary. As they passed the tellers on the way out, he innocently asked to change some galleons to pounds so that he could buy some nicer muggle clothes. Seeing the over-sized rags he was dressed in, McGonagall readily approved.

McGonagall gave the muggle-borns maps of the Alley and explained about buying their school supplies. They would up again when they were done at Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. Harry let himself bask in the wonder of Diagon Alley, playing the eager schoolboy as she escorted him. He even asked if he could buy a gold cauldron, which of course didn't go over any better with her than it had with Hagrid. They passed the Grangers in the book shop, and Harry jokingly reminded Hermione that she had to get to the other stores, too.

He did convince McGonagall to let him get an owl. "So I won't have to borrow Mrs. Figg's," he said. He entered Eeylops Owl Emporium and quickly picked out a beautiful snowy owl. He pretended to pick out a name for her at random from A History of Magic and "stumbled upon" Hedwig. The owl gazed at him with intelligent eyes, almost as if she recognised him, although she gave him an offended look when he said, "Hello, old girl." She wasn't that old yet. He whispered a promise to her to keep her in a cage as little as possible. If he had let her fly freely in the escape from Privett Drive, she probably would have survived.

The last shop they visited, once again, was Ollivander's. Harry hadn't been in here since he bought his wand the first time, and the difference was unbelievable. He could feel the magic flowing through the shop from the thousands of wands piled from floor to ceiling, more palpable than any place he had been including Hogwarts. With a start, he decided that living in this cacophony of magic for so many years must be what had made Ollivander as strange as he was. He was sure that the sheer density of magic was distorting the local ley lines.

"Good afternoon," said a soft voice. Harry jumped. An old man was standing before them, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop.

"Hello," said Harry awkwardly.

"Ah yes," said the man. "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Harry Potter." It wasn't a question. "You have your mother's eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work."

No, his memory hadn't failed him; those silver eyes were not blinking. Was he somehow related to Luna?

"Your father, on the other hand, favoured a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favoured it—it's really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course."

Seriously, had he got creepier? They were almost nose to nose, now.

"And that's where…"

Mr. Ollivander touched the lightning scar on Harry's forehead with a long, white finger.

"I'm sorry to say I sold the wand that did it," he said softly. "Thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands… well, if I'd known what that wand was going out into the world to do…"

Harry was this close to throwing out a wandless Banishing Charm just to make Ollivander give him some personal space when the old man noticed Harry's escort.

"Ah, Professor McGonagall, how nice to see you again. Nine and a half inches, fir, and dragon heartstring, of course. Nice and firm—nothing better for transfiguration."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Ollivander," she said calmly.

"Well, now, Mr. Potter…let me see…which is your wand arm."

Harry held out his right arm, and Ollivander started up his enchanted tape measure. Although from what he had since learnt of wand lore, he didn't think those measurements had any discernible use. In any case, he didn't feel like waiting around for the old man to figure out the holly and phoenix wand again, so Harry found it for him. He reached out a tendril of magic to the one wand out of the thousands in the shop that was calling out to him. There was a faint rattle as it vibrated in its box.

"Hmm? What was that?" Ollivander walked back in the general direction of the sound. Harry plucked the strand of magic again, drawing his attention to a particular box.

"Could it be?" he said. "Such a reaction, I wonder…but yes, why not." He took the wand off the shelf and delicately handed it to Harry.

Harry smiled as he felt the familiar warmth of his old wand in his wand. He hadn't felt his magic align like this since it had been broken in Godric's Hollow. He waved it around and casually conjured a long line of light with the Fire-Writing Spell, with a flourish of sparks around it. For the first time in years, he really felt like things were looking up.

McGonagall looked on in surprise. That certainly looked like a controlled spell, not beginner's burst of sparks, but Ollivander was too excited to notice.

"Oh, bravo!" he exclaimed. "And on the first try, too. I've rarely seen such a powerful connection…how curious, how very curious…"

Harry smirked slightly. "Let me guess; this wand means I have some grand destiny to fulfil or something?"

"Why…yes, I suppose so. Why do you say that, Mr. Potter?"

"I don't know. It just seemed like that would be just my luck."